Kismet
by Symphonic Din
Summary: After five months overseas following their battle with the Benefactor, Chris Argent returns to Beacon Hills with monumental news; he's found a way to bring Allison back from the dead. (In which Mr. Argent, Scott, Stiles, and Lydia summon the Fates and get far more than they bargained for.)
1. Zombie Movies

Kismet

"You're telling me that we can bring Allison back?"

Scott, skipping out on his first day of senior chemistry by hiding in the Beacon Hill's High bathroom, nearly tripped over the name that had become so foreign during the last year. It was a name—a person—he'd tried to distance himself from ever since her untimely and painful departure. As things had picked up and their hunt for the benefactor began, letting her go had become easier. He hadn't had time to focus on her absence, or the way the letters of her name still lingered in his contacts, but as Chris Argent said her name it was as if someone had ripped her away from the world yesterday. The pain was still new, fresh, but dulled by the circumstances.

"… it's risky," Chris affirmed, voice muffled by his poor connection, "It's really, really risky. We're talking more dangerous than anything we've ever dealt with before—"

"And that's why you called me," Scott surmised.

"And that's why _I can't ask you to help_," Chris corrected him, "I'm only telling you because I know how important Allison was to you, and… well, we've seen where keeping secrets gets us."

"Whoa, whoa, , you can't drop this on me and not expect me to—to help. If it's dangerous, you've got a better chance with me around," He dropped his voice like there was someone listening in, "And if it's Allison—if it could bring her back—you know there's nothing I won't do."

"That's a dangerous mindset, Scott." There was a long pause, and then the sound of a long-held breath being let go. "I'll be in Beacon Hills in two days. Meet me at Deaton's, bring Lydia, Stiles— let's talk specifics_ before _you pledge your life to the cause, okay?"

"Yeah… yeah. I'll be there." He couldn't keep the hope out of his voice, "Definitely."

* * *

><p>As soon as Scott walked into chemistry (at the price of one tardy slip and the threat of detention), Stiles was giving him that look. The one with the raised brows and twirling pencil, silently asking 'what's going on'. Scott refused to give him anything; not the slightest nod or shrug, just a smile he couldn't trace away.<p>

This resulted in Stiles throwing bits of paper at him until the teacher intervened (the teacher was new; they'd cycled through staff at Beacon hills quickly given the high death rate), and as such only got an answer after the bell had rung.

"What was that about? Late to chem, day one—dude, I thought we were going into senior year with a fresh slate. No detention, straight A's, and B's, and maybe a C once in a while, and a D if the teacher's an ass—"

"Stiles, chill." Scott hadn't stopped smiling since he'd gotten to chemistry, and it was the kind of smarmy smile that said 'I know something you don't', and it was obviously driving Stiles up the wall. "I'll tell you, but we need to get Lydia."

"You need to get Lydia for what?" Malia turned the corner, having heard the entirety of the conversation from well down the hall. Given her poor performance in science the year before, she'd been put in remedial studies in nearly all subjects, and as such, they had almost no classes with one another this year. It was, as Stiles remarked, a hell of a lot better than being held back as a Junior. "What's going on?"

"I'll let you know as soon as I do," Stiles explained, sending Scott a mock-accusatory look, "Honestly, I'm not even curious anymore. Literally _nothing_ will surprise me. Aliens? Awesome. Armageddon? Alright. I just want to know if I can wait until second semester to start fearing for my life."

"It's not like that," Scott half-laughed, starting to lead the group down to the cafeteria, "It's… a good thing. Like, a really good thing."

"But it's a supernatural thing," Stiles added, "Because you said we need Lydia."

"I didn't say we needed Lydia," Scott countered, "I just want to tell you both what's going on at the same time."

"What about Kira?" Malia asked, brow furrowed, "You're probably going to need all of us for whatever this is."

"You're going to need all of us for what?" Kira asked, joining them from the Physics room as they passed. "… did something happen?"

Scott turned around to address the entirety of his small following, "Yeah—well, not yet. But it's not a bad thing—it's the opposite of a bad thing,"

"But Mr. 'Big Boy Alpha' here won't tell us what the _thing_ is," Stiles said.

Kira looked at him with the vexation Malia had greeted him with earlier. "Why not?"

Scott exhaled, "I'll tell you all about it at lunch, alright?"

"All about what?" Liam, now a sophomore, had been keeping track of the conversation on his way down the stairs. His hearing was just as sharp as Malia's.

"Oh my god," Scott looked towards the ceiling, turning to face forward again, "Five minutes. I'll tell you all in five minutes." In the interim, Stiles caught Liam up, which only invited further questions, and for Scott, further frustration.

By the time the five of them had found Lydia, caught her up, and found a decent spot for lunch,every single one of them was asking Scott what the news was, what had happened, what was going on.

"Alright," Scott addressed them all, standing at the head of the table. "Listen up. I got a call from Mr. Argent during third period. He says he's going to be back in Beacon Hills in two days, and… he has a way to bring Allison back."

He made sure every word was clear so that there was no room for miscommunication, and Lydia practically choked on her parfait. Stiles stared at him in wide eyed astonishment, leaning back in his chair like he'd been struck. Kira gaped; despite the fact that she'd only known Allison briefly, they'd been sisters in arms against the nogitsune nearly a year ago, and Kira didn't think she'd ever forget the moment of her departure.

Malia and Liam, on the other hand, were completely and utterly lost. Malia was, as usual, the one to speak up. "Okay, I'll bite. Who's Allison?"

Scott, Stiles, and Lydia all looked at her as if the question was inherently offensive, and Malia visibly recoiled. The silence was heavy and so thick that for a moment not one of them could hear the cacophony of sound that was the cafeteria beyond.

"…She was a friend," Scott finally managed, "A hunter. An Argent. She…"

"She was badass," Stiles enunciated, eyes unfocused, "She—"

"She was human." Lydia added, lips pursed, eyes downturned beneath heavily shadowed lids.

Off put by the sudden somber mood, Malia refocused on Scott. "But you said you can bring her back, so…" What was the problem?

That faint hope broke them from their sour memories, and Scott pressed on. "Not me, Mr. Argent. I don't know what he plans to do yet, but he wouldn't call me about it if he wasn't sure it was a real lead."

Stiles exhaled, looking down as he thought it over. "…Listen, Scott, I want Allison here as much as the next guy, but I have _never _heard of anyone bringing anyone back from the dead and it being a good thing. Ever."

"We did it," Lydia interjected, "All of us did."

Stiles shook his head, "Yeah, but that… that was different. That was like facilitated zombieism, and it still screwed us over."

"It doesn't matter. We don't know what Mr. Argent has yet, and if there's even a chancethat it could bring Allison back—"

"We've got to try," Lydia agreed, resolve reflected deep in her eyes, "She shouldn't have died. It was wrong, and _if_ we can give her a second chance, it's our responsibility to make sure she gets it." Despite her best efforts she sent Stiles a very pointed look. She knew what had happened hadn't been his fault, but the demon had worn his face, and even a year later it was hard to shake the association whenever Allison was brought up.

Thankfully, Stiles didn't notice. "I'm not saying we _shouldn't_, I'm just saying that I think we need to approach this—the whole thing—really, really carefully."

"Yeah, definitely," Scott nodded, "But we can decide what to do after we hear what Mr. Argent's got."

Kira, not feeling it her place to speak about a girl she'd hardly known in comparison to the three beside her, stayed silent.

Malia, having next to no cognitive empathy, exercised no such restraint. "So, what, two days?"

Scott nodded once, "Two days. Lydia, Stiles and I will go meet him and see what's going on. Before you say anything—" He could tell Malia was about to step in with some objection, some reason she, Kira, and Liam should go too, but he cut it off. "I'm not letting anyone else come. This is kind of a private matter for Mr. Argent, and if he only wants the three of us there, he only gets the three of us there. I promise we'll tell you all everything as soon as we can."

Kira nodded somewhat solemnly, even though the back of her mind was racing. She knew she shouldn't be worried. Of all things to think of when Scott brought up Allison, the state of the blossoming relationship between she and Scott should have been the last thing on her mind. She pushed the concern as far back as she could, "You know, my mom might know something about… the afterlife. At least in our culture. I could ask her about it, if it'll help Mr. Argent."

"Not yet," Scott decided, "I don't know who's supposed to know about this. Until we get the details from Mr. Argent, this is top-secret. Got it?" He looked around the table, making eye contact with each one of them in turn, "Not parents, not friends, not Derek. Just the six of us."

Everyone nodded, even if Malia and Liam did so somewhat uncomprehendingly, and the six went on to share a silent meal. The hope was there, shared amongst those that had felt the most loss, but they were too wise to celebrate yet. A year ago, things would have been different. A year ago, they didn't yet understand that meddling in the world of the supernatural called for sacrifice. But now they knew there were tricks, and something so miraculous had to have an equally impressive price.

* * *

><p>The next two days were uneventful. They didn't mention their planned meeting with Mr. Argent, treading around the topic like speaking of it might make it less likely to take place. Classes were paramount, lacrosse practice went on, and life continued as if it hadn't been a habitual nightmare the past few months.<p>

The day the meeting was supposed to take place, Lydia and Stiles met at Scott's house before they headed to Deacon's animal hospital. The excitement was tangible, the muted hope, the tentative potential, it was electric.

Lydia, seated on the end of Scott's bed, looked at her hands folded in her lap as she spoke. "You really think there's a chance was can bring Allison back?" Her voice was strong, demanding, like she only wanted the most realistic answer regardless of how much it might sting. "Honestly."

"Yeah, I do," Scott pulled a hoodie over his shirt, "Mr. Argent knows what he's doing. He doesn't follow bogus leads. If anyone could find a way to safely bring Allison back from… wherever she is, it's him."

Lydia nodded, giving herself room to genuinely hope. Stiles just shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know, Scott. Doesn't sit right. Every zombie movie I have ever seen says this is a bad idea."

"Because movies definitely know what they're talking about. What about werewolf movies, huh?"

Stiles counted off as he spoke, "Uh, uncontrollable on the full moon, claws, teeth, mutton-chops, bloodlust… missing anything?"

Scott just answered him with a look, opening his mouth to reply with words that didn't come. "Okay, point. But we're not bringing Allison back as a _zombie._"

"Re-animating the dead sounds a lot like zombies," Stiles argued, "I just don't want you to get all into this just because it's Allison, y'know? I get how important she was to you, but—"

Scott realized what Stiles was getting at, and chuckled incredulously. "I'm not going to let it cloud my judgment, Stiles. I'm going to look at whatever Mr. Argent has _objectively._"

"Okay, okay," Stiles surrendered, "Are you almost ready? You've been trying to decide on a sweatshirt for like, ten minutes."

Honestly, Scott was anxious. Part of him hoped he'd be able to see Allison again as early as today. Maybe Mr. Argent had already brought her back, and he wasn't going to show up in anything ratty. But, as Stiles said it, he realized just how monstrous the pile of discarded hoodies on his bed had become. "Oh. Yeah, let's go." He pulled on the last hoodie he'd tried on, and waved the two of them out the door.

They took Stiles's trusted-and-true jeep over to Deacon's place, and bypassed the "closed" sign on the front door without issue. With everything going on recently and how often Deacon found himself treating some of his more unorthodox patients, Scott wondered just how well the animal hospital itself was doing. There couldn't be nearly as much money coming in nowadays, and Deacon had to keep both traditional and non-traditional remedies stocked, regardless of how expensive they were (how much did pure mountain ash even cost? Ancient bones from sacred burial grounds? Who knew.) but the place was still open. Of all people Scott had learned not to underestimate, Dr. Deacon was one of the first.

"Dr. Deacon?" Scott called, going behind the counter to open the door to the back room, "It's Scott. Lydia and Stiles, too. Mr. Argent tol—"

"Sh!" Deacon cut him off, waving them in to the dimly lit back room. "I know."

Scott cast a confused glance back at Stiles and Lydia, both of whom just mirrored his expression. "Is Mr. Argent—"

"Here?" Chris Argent stepped forward, expression as haggard as it'd been last Scott had seen him. Not long after he'd recovered from his injury at the end of last year, he'd gone back overseas without so much as a goodbye. Scott had texted him more than once and only ever gotten a single reply; "busy".

"Mr. Argent has come to me with something of a ludicrous proposition," Deacon explained, "I'm sure he told you what he plans to do."

Scott nodded, "Yeah."

"He told him the _what, _but not the how." Lydia amended, looking from Deacon to Mr. Argent.

Deacon, approving of her skepticism, gave Mr. Argent the floor with the slightest inclination.

"I've been in Greece for the past five months," He began, "I was there looking for a rare plant. A species of Hellebore. While I was there, I met a group of hunters that specialized in—get this—ancient gods. They hunt ancient gods. Zeus, Poseidon, you name it, they've run into it. These days, it's mostly just keeping the gods from calling for sacrifices and killing innocents, but they told me about something… interesting. You've heard of the Moerae."

"The fates," Lydia translated, "They work with the thread of life and are said to dictate destiny—even the destiny of the gods."

Neither Scott nor Stiles was surprised she knew; over the last two years, they'd come to understand Lydia was much, much more than met the eye.

Stiles was taking all of this in a slightly different way. He waved his hands about like he was trying to brush the words away, "You are telling me that all that stuff we read about when I was a freshman—the Odyssey and all that—those things are _real_? Cyclopes, harpies-"

Mr. Argent nodded, first at Lydia and then to Stiles. "It surprised me, too. I didn't believe them at first, and then they showed me where they'd mounted Cerberus's head on the wall."

"But Cerberus had three heads," Lydia quipped.

"They only managed to cut off one."

"I don't care about Cerberus," Scott redirected the conversation, "What can we do about Allison?"

"I'm getting to that," Mr. Argent settled, "They told me the about Moerae. If you summon them—all three of them—"

"A bad idea in it's own right," Deacon interjected, side-eyeing Mr. Argent with hard eyes.

"You summon all three of them, you trap them, and you tell them who you want back. They set the terms and conditions, they tell you what they need, and if you get what they need—"

Deacon cut in again, "And you're in their favor,"

"They've been known to bring people back from the dead."

Mr. Argent let it settle amongst them for a moment before continuing, "I understand if you don't want to help. I'm going to try. I've got to try."

Shaking his head, Deacon addressed the three youngest in the room. "The fates are notoriously dangerous creatures. If you think about supernatural creatures and monsters, you start with werewolves, vampires, wendigo, just the basics. Over them, there are alphas. Beyond that, predicting life and death, you have banshees. Banshees are the _servants_ of the Moerae. Moerae are effectively immortal, and when they are angered they are _deadly._"

Unperturbed, Scott went on, "So are werewolves. That doesn't mean we can't handle them." He looked to Mr. Argent, "So, we capture them, we ask them what they want in exchange for Allison, and if we don't like the terms, we just let them go?"

A sigh from Deaton took the reply from Mr. Argent. "First of all, if you're going to do this, and I advise _against _doing this, you're going to want to summon them without trapping them. When you want help from the other side, it's polite to allow the spirits you've summoned the opportunity to leave. The Moerae are extremely curious creatures; if they're interested, they'll stay."

"You just said they're deadly," Stiles noted, "Two seconds ago."

"So you protect yourselves," Deaton offered, "While it's impossible to stop the fates, there are a few old tricks I know that dissuade them from taking any extreme action."

Mr. Argent thought it over, "So we don't trap them. We summon them, talk, and go from there. That's not really my style, but if it's the best chance we have to get Allison back…"

"It is. Of course, summoning all three fates is no easy task. There're a lot of very specific incense, items, spices—"

In response, Chris Argent let a bag drop from his shoulders. "What do you think I've been doing?"

Cocking a brow, Deaton knelt down to examine the bag's contents. "… Even the blood. I'm impressed."

"Blood?" Scott asked, taken aback, "What blood?"

"None that wasn't already shed," Mr. Argent assured, "The ritual calls for the blood of a life not lived, a life fully realized, and a life not yet over. They were all dying. It was a hospital; I just took a vial or two."

Despite the sour taste it left in his mouth, if no one had truly died, Scott couldn't bring himself to have a problem with it. He threw a hand over his nose as Deaton opened one of the vials; the blood sure wasn't fresh.

"Greek, too. Old school." He nodded towards Mr. Argent, more in appreciation than anything else, "You didn't cut any corners. They'll notice."

"That's what I'm counting on," Mr. Argent smiled, taking the vial back from Deacon and placing it safely back in the bag, "We'll preform the ritual on the Nemeton. In the old myths, summoning took place on an enchanted altar. I don't think anything fits the description better these days."

"I thought that thing was already kicking out a crazy strong signal," Stiles mentioned, "Won't this just make it worse?"

"It can't get much worse," Deacon emphasized, "It's been calling creatures here with as much power as it has. If anything, it's definitely the best bet you have to call the Fates together. Instead of creating the draw yourselves, you'll only be specifying the draw the Nemeton already has."

"It's settled, then." Lydia confirmed, "It's not going to hurt anyone and it's our best chance of getting Allison back." She honestly couldn't see a down-side. Not ever an extreme risk.

Scott, on the other hand, was a bit more discriminatory (perhaps only because of Stiles's comment earlier), "Wait, If it's this easy, why isn't everyone calling their relatives back from the dead?"

"Because," Deaton started, "Aside from the materials you need, you also need a banshee."

* * *

><p>Please take a moment to review this work! Feedback is much appreciated.<p> 


	2. An Idea in Practice

Everyone in the room turned to look at Lydia. She met their eyes tentatively, somewhat uncomfortable, and then crossed her arms. "What? I get it. I'm the resident whack-job. It's not like we have another banshee around here. One that'd be willing to do the job, anyway. What do you need me to do?"

Mr. Argent stepped up to answer. "In order to summon all three Moerae, a banshee needs to read the incantation. Apparently, back in the days of ancient Greece, the whole ritual was passed down as a trade secret from banshee to banshee. Whenever they lost their way, or were in danger, they could always preform this ritual and know they'd be safe. Of course, that's just an old legend. Who knows what it was really originally created to do—"

"You're saying that if we summon these things," Lydia mulled it over, pensive, "I could ask them about how these—these _powers_ work? They could teach me?"

Deaton narrowed his eyes, "It's possible, but there's no way to know just how amicable these Fates are going to be. Whatever happens, we need to proceed with caution."

At that point, Lydia didn't care much for caution. For something that could help her shut out the voices that plagued her mind, the uncontrollable screams, the whispers of death, she was willing to pay almost any price. If the price was as low as reading some kind of incantation for some long-forgotten ritual, nothing could make her say no. "I'll do it."

Chris Argent visibly relaxed. He'd spent the last five months collecting the physical objects he'd need for the ritual, climbing mountains, browsing markets that shouldn't have been legal in even the most corrupt countries, collecting favors… but finding a banshee was another matter entirely. His entire plan, all of his hope, relied on Lydia.

"Thank you, Lydia."

"So, wait," Scott cut in, "Do we have everything we need? Can we—can we do this right now? I mean, the sooner we talk to them, the better, right? We can't do anything unless we know what they want."

Mr. Argent turned to Deaton, and then back to Scott. "I don't see why not."

Scott called his mom and left a message letting her know he was going to be home late. Nothing dangerous, he promised, but important. _That _kind of important. He would have told her what was really going on, what they planned to do, but as soon as Mr. Argent had seen them all reaching for their phones, he made one thing explicitly clear;

"_You can't tell anyone about this. Do you know how many people _in this town alone_ would kill for a chance to talk to the Moerae?" _

The more Scott thought about it, the more it made sense. Everyone had lost someone important, and if word got out, there was no telling how far it would spread. Hunters that had lost loved ones, hunters that wanted something new to kill, the list went on and on. That aside, Scott couldn't find it in himself to lie completely to his mom, and did promise he'd explain what was going on when he could. Stiles made much the same promise to his dad (who wanted next to nothing to do with the supernatural these days), and Lydia called no one. Her mom, she said, didn't care about what she did in her spare time.

They took two separate cars to the road leading to the Nemeton. Deaton and Mr. Argent rode in one, Stiles, Lydia, and Scott in the other. The sun had set less than an hour before, and as the paved road gave way to unpaved rubble gave way to rough terrain, both cars pulled over. The woods, it seemed, had only gotten more dense since the Nemeton's rebirth almost two years ago. The trees overhead hardly let any of the moon's natural light through, and with the low visibility, Scott was on edge.

"Catch," Stiles, who'd held everyone up to rummage around in the back of his jeep, threw something Scott's way, "Flashlights. Started keeping them in the back after we went looking for Malia."

"Dude, I have night vision," Scott countered, handing the flashlight off to Lydia, "Werewolf, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah." Stiles produced two more flashlights, keeping one for himself and handing one to Deaton, "You and your 'special eyes'."

While Scott and Stiles walked ahead, Mr. Argent stayed back with Lydia. "The incantation is in greek," He handed her a piece of folded notebook paper, "think you can handle it?"

"_Ti nomízete_," Lydia shot back, taking the paper from him with one swift swipe, "I took Greek after I finished Latin. My accent might be bad, but I bet the ancient gods'll get the message." She looked it over, mentally reciting the words, pausing when she reached the end. "… It says I'll have to scream."

"You're a banshee. That's what you do, isn't it?" Mr. Argent asked.

"No, it doesn't work like that. It's not a normal scream, I only—I only scream like, a real banshee scream when someone's about to die."

Mr. Argent's mouth became a thin line, "… we'll figure something out." With that, he dropped back to walk beside Dr. Deaton.

Deciding not to think about what that might mean, Lydia read the words over and over again, self-correcting her mental mispronunciations, and as she practiced, the words grew louder and louder. It took her a while to realize it was only because they were nearing the Nemeton itself.

The tree stump, previously dry and dying, was now the host of a slew of new life. Fungi grew from every crack, small branches and leaves reached out towards the sky, and wildflowers of all kinds dotted the surrounding clearing. The scenery was so new it almost felt like they were seeing it for the first time.

"The place is pretty alive for November," Stiles observed, going over to get a closer look at the stump, "Guess it's all that magic mojo, huh?"

"Something like that," Deaton chuckled.

Mr. Argent, while they took in the new landscape, began unloading his bag with deft purpose. Three wooden bowls, two red vials, a bag of berries, a tape measure, a spool of thread, and a pair of very old looking iron scissors, all placed strategically on the flat surface of the Nemeton. As Mr. Argent poured the contents of the vials into the first and third bowls, Scott recoiled again.

"That is really, really old blood," He grimaced, hiding his nose behind the sleeve of his hoodie, "Where'd you get it from again?"

"A hospital in Greece. It smells old because it _is_. I've been carrying it around for about four months."

"Aw, man, nasty," Stiles couldn't smell anything aside from the barest hints of iron, but he still looked disgusted. "That is some dedication right there. What's with the berries?"

"_Atropa belladona. _Deadly nightshade. It's part of the offering; apparently, the Moerae don't eat much, but _Atropa belladona_ is an exception. It works as a kind of sedative—think wine."

"And the school supplies?" Scott asked, picking up the rusty scissors only to have them stolen back.

It was Lydia who answered, "It's the Fates, Scott. The spinner, or the one who draws the thread," She motioned to the spool, "The allotter, or the measurer," the measuring tape, "And the cutter."

"Those scissors are the oldest pair in Grecian history," Mr. Argent set them back in their proper place, right in front of the third bowl, "They're historic, not 'school supplies'."

"Well, technically, someone could've used them back in Greece for school," Stiles offered, "We wouldn't really know—"

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Be quiet."

Mr. Argent went back to work by taking out a thin, silver blade. He poised it above his own forearm, but Scott grabbed him before he could make a move.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"One part of the ritual requires fresh blood," He explained, as calm and collected as ever, "I've lost more than my fair share already. A few more drops won't hurt, Scott."

They held eye contact for a solid fifteen seconds, and Scott let go of his arm after he'd convinced himself Mr. Argent really and truly knew what he was doing. Between an Argent, and Alpha, and Deaton, not much could go wrong.

"Alright."

Mr. Argent turned towards Lydia, who was still silently reciting the words to herself. "Are you ready, Lydia?"

She looked up, blinking as if she'd forgotten where she was. "Uh, yeah. As ready as I can be with fifteen minutes of preparation."

"Fifteen minutes for you is like three weeks of prep for anyone else," Stiles smirked, "Go for it."

Lydia stood herself in front of the Nemeton, and as she opened her mouth, it was as if all the sounds of the night vanished. There were no rustling leaves, no crickets, nothing creeping about in the night. It was only her voice, clear as crystal, resonating through the clearing, through the Nemeton itself.

"_Kaló̱ sou ,_

_Moíres pou ypagorév̱oun óla_

_Emfanisteí enó̱pion mou_

_Gia zi̱tó̱ kathodí̱gi̱si̱ ,_

_me ton trópo af̱tí̱s ti̱s zo̱í̱s kai ti̱s epómeni̱s ,_

_Eímai chaménos ._

_Sas kaló̱ edó̱ ,_

_se af̱tón ton kósmo to̱n thni̱tó̱n ,_

_na thespísei metá apó af̱tí̱ ti̱n aplí̱ théli̱si̱ sas_

_sti̱n pisto̱tikí̱ mou."_

As she spoke, Mr. Argent took the knife and ran it across his own skin. The red trailed down before falling, drop by drop, into the final, empty bowl.

And that was all Lydia could hear. It was like the sound of a faucet that couldn't quite be turned all the way off, that incessant drip, drip, drip. Her hair drifted about as if there was a gentle breeze, but there was nothing. She felt utterly disconnected, so far away from the world, it made her want to scream. She wanted to scream, she wanted to be brought back, she wanted to hold on.

And so she did. Her voice ripped through the silence like a knife run across a chalkboard, high pitched, desperate, and so loud it set everyone's ears ringing. Every werewolf in Beacon Hills heard her cry, and they all felt the sense of dread it carried.

And the Nemeton responded. A single pulse, a deep rumble, washing over them all at once in every direction. The wildflowers seemed to glow in the night, and the moon, blocked from view before, set the clearing aglow with the palest dapple.

Lydia, shaking, felt Stiles's arms around her as her knees buckled. "Lydia? Lydia? Are you okay?"

As Lydia pulled herself away from the shock that had been her own scream, she nodded distantly. Scott was at her side a half second later, helping Stiles get her back on her feet. "Where are they?" Scott asked, looking to Mr. Argent for some kind of answer.

"The hunters in Greece said it'll be twelve hours before they answer the summoning," He explained, wrapping the wound on his arm with efficient precision, "It has to pass from this world into theirs, then the draw will catch them."

"Could've told us that before," Stiles managed, "I was kind of expecting some kind of explosion. Hellfire, some lightning, the works. This is kind of anti-climactic for summoning a _god._"

"We'll be in school," Scott realized with a groan, "We can't miss school."

"It's just first period," Stiles reasoned, "And it's _English_. I don't know about you, but I've got a pretty firm grasp of the language I speak every day."

Mr. Argent interrupted their exchange, "Scott's right, you can't miss school. As important as this is, you don't know what else is going to happen this year. I'll keep you all up to date—keep your phones on."

Scott nodded, letting go of Lydia so she could stand on her own, "I… I can't leave." Lydia asserted, looking at Mr. Argent, "I need to meet them. I _have to._"

"She probably shouldn't leave," Deaton decided, "She's just as important as every other piece of this ritual. She may even be an anchor."

Mr. Argent looked between the three of them. "Then Lydia can stay. You two, go home, get some sleep. I'll text you as soon as I know anything."

"Whaaaat, come on." Stiles looked at Scott, who only shrugged helplessly. "Come _on, _this is the coolest thing we've ever done. After all the shit we've been through, I think we deserve to meet some gods."

"You might get a chance," Deaton admitted, "If they decide to negotiate, it'll probably take hours."

"So you're saying Scott and I could swing by after school," Stiles concluded, more satisfied with that than nothing, "Sweet."

"I'm not making any promises," Deaton reminded him, "But it's likely."

"I'll take it," Stiles resigned, clapping his hands together, "Be careful, alright?"

He looked at Lydia as he said it, but her eyes—and presumably, her ears—were elsewhere. Mr. Argent patted Scott and Stiles on the shoulder, "I'll be staying here all night with Lydia and Dr. Deaton to make sure no one tampers with the summoning. She'll be safe with us."

With that, he turned back to the Nemeton. Dr. Deaton waved them off, and with that, Scott and Stiles headed back home.

* * *

><p>It was around eleven when Stiles finally got back home. As he opened the door, he found himself nose-to-nose with Malia, and he nearly scrambled backwards.<p>

"Aie, uh, hey—"

"Sorry, I heard you driving back," She took a step farther inside the house, giving him some room, "Did you hear that huge boom earlier? I thought maybe it was lightning, but there's no storm, and I was worried it had something to do with what you were doing."

"Yeah, it definitely wasn't lightning," Stiles stepped in after her, kissing her briefly in passing, "Can't tell you about it yet, though. Alpha's orders." He gave a mock salute, "Actually, Mr. Argent's orders, but Scott backed him up."

"Why? I thought we agreed that we'd have no more secrets." After the incident with the dead pool and her real name, she'd made Stiles swear that he'd never keep secrets like that from her again on the grounds it only inspired mistrust. He'd agreed, and she didn't understand why he was so comfortable keeping something from her now.

"It's not really a you-me secret," He started up to his room, "It's not even a me secret. It's not even a secret. It's just a plan that could go really, really wrong if other people find out about it."

"Other people like Peter," Malia deduced, brows furrowed.

"Yes! Yes, exactly like Peter. Even Derek, or, or… even, like, the Pope. Not that I'm comparing either of them to the Pope, but if literally anyone finding out about this, it could go six different kinds of wrong. We're not keeping it from you in particular."

"But you're still keeping it from me," She emphasized, following him up, "You trust me, right?"

"What? Yeah, totally! Totally. But you have to trust _me_ on this one, alright? I'm sure Scott's going to tell you the day after tomorrow at the latest. And y'know what, if he doesn't, I will. Promise."

She caught up to him, hugging him from behind and holding her pinky up in front of him. "Promise."

"… What—"

"Pinky promise. That's a thing, right?"

Stiles fulfilled his half of the bargain with a smile, "Yeah, it is. I _pinky promise_." He looked back at her; she had come a long way since they'd first met, and she was just as beautiful and twice as fierce. "C'mon, let's go get some sleep. Class tomorrow."

Malia rolled her head back, "Ugggggh, Stiles, don't remind me."

The two of them made it to bed, but even then, they didn't get to sleep until twelve.

It was around four in the morning that Malia woke up. No alarm had sounded. No morning sun leeched through the windows.

There was only absence.

The warmth she'd felt beside her had vanished. As she sat up and reached to the farthest edge of the bed, she found nothing. She breathed in deep, only catching the faintest traces of Stiles that she knew were embedded in his room. "…Stiles?" She stood up, bare feet causing the floor to creak, "Stiles?"

She turned on the light, blinking at its sudden intensity; the room was just like it had been when she'd fallen asleep. Stiles's sneakers were still sitting in the corner of the room, but his jacket—his jacket was gone. She turned around to check the clock; had he gone to school without her? Was the clock wrong? The sun wasn't out, it had to be right. "Stiles!"

She threw open the bedroom door, trying to catch his scent; he'd gone through the living room, out the door-

Mr. Stilinski, sensitive to noises in the night after Stiles's run in with the Nogitsune, opened the door to his own bedroom and squinted out into the hallway. "What's going on?"

Malia heard him clear as day, throwing on her shoes and a jacket, "Stiles is gone," She growled, "He left his shoes."

Mr. Stilinski was wide awake all at once. "Oh, hell. Oh, _hell. _Do you have any idea where he could've gone? Is this—does this have something to do with the thing he said he couldn't tell me about?"

"I don't know," She answered honestly, "But I'm going to find out. I've got his scent."

"I'm coming, too." Mr. Stilinski swore, rushing to get decent clothes on, "This isn't the first time he's done this, and last time—"

Ever since the forged MRI, Mr. Stilinski had been worried in that way that only parents could worry. As much of a false alarm as it had been, it was still a very real possibility. It was something that, supernatural or not, Stiles would need to be wary of for his entire life. If this was a real symptom—

Malia waited just outside the door, trying to keep Stiles's scent close; "Hurry up, the wind's taking it!"

Mr. Stilinski was at the door not three minutes later, and the two of them jogged off into the darkness of the early morning. Malia would run ahead and circle back, making sure not to lose Mr. Stilinski at his own request. She told him more than once she'd be able to find him faster on her own, but he'd have none of it. "He's my son," He said, "_He's my son." _

Malia's nose lead them both farther and farther away from the city, and with each step, Mr. Stilinski's concern grew.

* * *

><p>Chris Argent had kept himself awake all night. One sleepless night was nothing compared to the exhaustion he'd had to endure before, and frankly, he felt more awake and alive than he had in a long while. To see his daughter again, her smile, to give her the opportunity to live her life—the possibility was exhilarating.<p>

He'd settled himself on the outskirts of the clearing, keeping himself concealed in the bushes. His pistol rested at his side, and Lydia sat at the base of the Nemeton. Deaton had found himself a place leaning against a nearby tree, and broke the last few hours of silence with the only thing that mattered.

"It's almost been twelve hours."

Sure enough, Chris checked his watch. 4:45. "… any idea what these things look like?" He asked, scanning the surrounding area for any sign of movement, "I need to know the difference between a Moerae and every other monster out there so I don't accident shoot the one thing that could help."

"Don't worry," Deaton assured, "For all intents and purposes, they look human. The Moerae are actual forces of nature, but they take corporeal forms for the explicit purpose of interacting with the mortal world. Clotho, the spinner, assigns everyone a fate when they're born. If they want to change that fate later on, they need to directly, physically intervene. They can't do that subtly if they look anything but human."

Chris opened his mouth to reply, but movement to his left caught his eye. He aligned the barrel of his gun, eyes sharp, but relaxed when he saw the cause. "God damn it," He muttered, standing up, "Stiles, I told you I'd text you when something happened. You've got _school, _for christ's sake."

Deaton put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from walking out into the clearing. "Wait." His voice was full of tension and uncertainty, and it unnerved Mr. Argent considerably.

A few feet away, Lydia looked up at him as he approached, more exhausted than anything else. "What're you doing here?"

Stiles blinked, doing a full three-sixty as he took in the situation, "I—I. You—" He pointed between the two of them, and then ran a hand through his hair, "Are you okay? I… I heard you. It was a dream, or something, but with you that might be a real thing, so I thought it'd be good to, y'know, check on you."

She looked him over, head to toe, incredulous. "…Stiles, where're your shoes?"

"I have no idea," He sat on the Nemeton, idly picking up the measuring tape to keep his hands busy, "Honestly," He let out something of a choked laugh, "I don't remember walking out here. Did I walk out here? Feels like I walked out here. Kinda freaking out, actually."

Lydia raised herself to sit on the stump along with him, "Maybe you were sleepwalking again—"

"Are you okay?" He asked it again, looking at her with a definite determination.

"I'm—yes, I'm fine. Stiles, are you?"

"I'm…" He looked at the ground for a minute, and then stood up, "You _screamed, _Lydia. I heard you."

"Uh, yeah. That's because you were here, Stiles. Last night. I think it was part of the ceremony. Something about it just… it made me want to—"

"No, it wasn't that, it was— I don't remember when, but I had to be _here._ You wanted me here."

"Stiles, you just had a weird dream." She pulled up one of the nearby flowers as she spoke, "_Or _you just want to miss school."

"What? No, Lydia, listen," He'd unwound and re-wound the measuring tape several times already, "Listen. Just _listen, _for two seconds. I—you said you needed help."

Stiles looked as confused and frustrated as she felt.

"I can feel it, right here," He tapped the side of his head, "Maybe it's a banshee thing, maybe this is a dream. Hell, it feels like a dream. Wouldn't be the first time we all dreamed of this old stump, huh?"

"It's not a dream," Lydia reassured him, "Mr. Argent and Dr. Deaton are right over—"

Beyond the edge of the clearing, there was nothing.

* * *

><p>As always, I hope you enjoyed! If you did, I always appreciate reviews! Theories, reactions, my own errors (oops!)- all is welcome!<p> 


	3. Supernatural Shopping Lists

Deaton and Mr. Argent could only watch the scene before them unfold. Or, rather, they could only watch how it _didn't _unfold. The entirety of the clearing stood at a frozen; the fireflies, sparse as they were, hung still in the air. The grass and leaves, blowing gently around their feet, remained unmoved around the Nemeton itself. Both Stiles and Lydia stayed utterly still, sitting beside one another on the stump that remained.

"What happened to them?" Mr. Argent asked, tempted to step into the clearing himself, "Was it Stiles? He took the tape, it might have interfered with the summoning."

Deaton's awe was subtle, "No. The summoning was a complete success." He lowered his voice, "All this time, and I had no idea."

Mr. Argent started at him, absolutely perplexed, "What?" He looked at the scene in front of him again, trying to piece something, anything together. "… you're not saying that _Stiles Stilinski _is—you're not saying he's—"

Dr. Deaton only nodded once, solemn. "If you think about it, it makes perfect sense. An agent of fate, meant to change destiny."

Mr. Argent was having none of that. "Are we talking about the same Stiles? Because the Stiles I know isn't capable of life-long subterfuge. I doubt he's even capable of… of lying, really."

"I'd imagine he doesn't know it," Deaton surmised, "He has no idea. Whatever his task is, it's his nature. Whatever he's in Beacon hills to do, it comes naturally; being born here, growing up now, with all of this going on, it was pre-determined by the Moerae themselves. A hundred years as a mortal is nothing to a Moerae. One of them must have… must have volunteered. A personal intervention. That's an honor."

"Okay, so, assuming all of that is true," Which he still doubted, "Where are the other two? Why—how can this help Allison?"

"I don't know," Deaton answered, keeping it simple, "I don't know. This well outside my range of expertise. All I know is that, at this moment, what we're looking at is a temporal lock. It's an ability very few creatures have, and I have absolutely no idea how long it'll last or what the consequences of breaching it are. This is the largest one I've ever seen."

"It's the only one I've ever seen," Mr. Argent breathed, the sun just starting to rise over the horizon. Interestingly enough, in the clearing, it remained just before dawn. "It's amazing. And you're sure Stiles is the one doing this?"

"No," Deaton admitted, "But considering he was drawn out here in the dead of night for no other reason, and his presence directly resulted in _this, _I'm going to go ahead and say it's a safe bet. He also picked up one of the three offerings you left. Isn't that meant to be an indication of which Moerae you managed to summon?"

"So you're familiar with the ritual," Mr. Argent sighed in resignation, "That's the way it's supposed to work, yes."

"So you've got the Allotter," Deacon surmised, "Thinking about it now, it was obvious."

"You keep saying that," Mr. Argent almost cut him off, "I've known Stiles for almost as long as you have, and I fail to see how- how _this _is obvious." He still couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. It raised too many questions, so many uncertainties—

"Who was it that lead Scott into the woods the night he got bitten by Peter?" Deaton posed, "Stiles is smart, he's open minded, and above all else, he's _intuitive_, don't you think? He even survived possession by a Nogitsune—no easy feat."

"Those are just Stiles things," Mr. Argent argued, "He's a kid. He makes mistakes, but he's a quick thinker. That's why he's survived so long, not because of some ancient Greek hocus-pocus."

"It's too bad we say 'survived' instead of 'lived'," Deaton observed, "And I suppose we'll see, hm? As soon as things pick up again. If they pick up again."

"What do you mean _if," _Mr. Argent narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending, "This… 'lock' thing can't last forever." He looked into the clearing again. Everything stayed suspended like an unshaken snow-globe with the Nemeton it's centerpiece, and the scene was almost picturesque.

"No, not forever in the sense of the end of time," Deaton agreed, his tone foreshadowing the imminent 'but', "But it could certainly stay in place until long after you and I are gone. I'd imagine it's a kind of defense mechanism—if the summoning was originally intended to be used by Banshees that found themselves in danger, pulling a Banshee out of time is a sure way to make sure they stay safe."

Mr. Argent looked down at his pistol before replying, "That's kind of overkill, don't you think?"

"Well, so is burning psychics in town square," Deacon countered, "From what I've read, the Moerae are extremely protective of Banshees. Banshees are their only way of interacting with the physical world, short of appearing themselves. As you've no doubt noticed, without proper support, they don't tend to last long."

"So you're saying that Stiles—_if _he's a Moerae—did this to protect Lydia?" He motioned to the clearing, "We can't just let them stay like this. What if they don't know how to undo it?" As concerned as he was about Allison, his paramount worries were Stiles and Lydia themselves. If they really stayed like this for years…

"He probably doesn't," Deaton admitted, "They probably have no idea what's going on. But… this might have just been a reflexive response to an assumed danger. Our presence might be the problem."

"We can't just leave them. I told Scott I'd keep Lydia safe, and—"

"She couldn't be much safer."

Mr. Argent exhaled, watching his breath drift off into the pre-dawn light, "What's stopping me from walking in and pulling them both out?"

"I don't know. It might work, or it might get you killed. If it's a barrier meant to keep out enemies, I don't imagine running at it straight on would be good for anyone."

Mr. Argent, in a moment of ingenuity and defiance, picked up a small stone nearby and chucked it at the clearing with a flick of his wrist. It ricocheted with frightening force, and when he reached down to pick it up and examine it, it nearly burned his hand. "… That's one hell of a barrier."

It was at that moment that the smallest hint of movement caught his eye, accompanied by the sound of a graceful but hard-hitting gait. He aligned the barrel of his gun towards the sound, trusting his ears alone, but relaxed as soon as he saw the cause.

Malia, in her pajamas, stood near the edge of the clearing with leaves thrown through her hair. Her eyes were sharp, perceptive, and in the dark of the early morning, they held the faintest traces of that electric blue Mr. Argent had spent so many years trying to snuff out. "Malia," Mr. Argent thankfully caught her attention before she tried to press further on into the clearing, "Don't go any further."

Malia looked at him in utter vexation, and then looked back at the clearing. She'd followed Stiles's scent through the woods for nearly an hour, and the trail ended here. She could see him, sitting there with Lydia, but she couldn't smell him like he was there. It was like beyond that point, beyond where the clearing started, there was nothing. That was what stopped her, not Mr. Argent. "What's going on?" She more demanded than asked, stature suggesting she was ready to pounce on whatever happened to make itself available.

Mr. Stilinski, as in shape as he was, took a while to catch up, and even longer to catch his breath. "Wh—Why'd we stop, did'ya find him?" He looked up at Malia, and then past her into the clearing. While the forest itself was reasonably well lit by now, both Stiles and Lydia were cast in shadow. "… what the hell?"

Before Mr. Argent could open his mouth and try to explain, Deaton took over. "Everything's fine," He assured, looking more at Malia than Mr. Stilinski, "They're safe."

"What is this," Malia motioned to the barrier, more visible now that the time was changing, "Where did it come from? Why can't I smell them?"

"Because they aren't here anymore," Deaton tried, "A lot's happened. A lot's going to happen—let me get you up to speed…"

* * *

><p>Lydia stared into the abyss beyond the clearing, eyes wide and dread growing. "They were just right there," She whispered, "Seconds ago. I saw them <em>seconds ago.<em>"

"So it's a dream. You nodded off waiting for those Moerae to show up, I'm at home asleep, and we're doing some freaky Vulcan dream-sharing thing. The real question is, what do you need help with? Cause, dream or not, I got that feeling."

"I honestly can't think of a single thing that I need help with right now," Lydia asserted, "I mean, aside from waking up, but that'll happen in a few minutes."

"It wasn't waking up. I know it wasn't waking up."

Lydia stared at him. He was talking like something was on the tip of his tongue, like he knew the answer to the question he was asking but couldn't quite remember it. Deciding to indulge him, she asked "Was it about school?"

"Hm, nah. Like I could help _you _with school. Something else."

Lydia thought back on the day in it's entirety, but could only come up with one thing. "Allison?"

"Yes. Yes! That's it. You want help with Allison." He smiled at her, happy that they'd figured it out, but he was right back to confusion a second later, "I can't even help you with that. Why'd you call me?"

"Stiles, for the last time, I did _not _call you. I didn't call you, or text you, or send you some weird subliminal banshee message. We're either dreaming, or… or you really did walk all the way out here in your pajamas. I _know _that I was just awake next to the Nemeton."

"Yeah, to be honest, I don't even know. But— _but _I do know you told me to come out here because you want Allison back, right? That's what you want to talk about."

Lydia thought the entire situation over; maybe this _was _a dream. Maybe this was her mind's way of giving her someone to talk to about Allison. Her death, the possibility of seeing her again— "… Yeah. Yes, I do. If we manage to bring her back, I… I don't know what I'm going to say to her."

"You and me both," Stiles admitted, exhaling heavily, "I didn't even really get to say goodbye, with everything that was going on. Not that I knew her as well as Scott, and I didn't spend as much time with her as you did, but… it was fast, huh? Unfair."

"That's an understatement," Lydia choked out a single laugh, "She didn't have to help us. Because of her, the Argents didn't hunt Scott. She went against hundreds of years of tradition, she _changed things, _and in the end…" She let out a shaky breath, "Of all people that deserved more."

"She wasn't supposed to die," Stiles admitted, "I mean, she shouldn't have. It was my fault."

Lydia focused on him with sharp eyes, "No. Stiles—no. It wasn't your fault," She'd always wondered if Stiles blamed himself for what happened to Allison. At the end of the day, they all knew it had been the work of the Nogitsune, but Stiles had seen everything first-hand. It was something—an experience—Lydia doubted she'd ever understand. "It was the Nogitsune."

Stiles nodded, lips tight, "Yeah, I know. But she still shouldn't have died." He looked at her, "Bringing her back is the right thing to do. As long as she isn't a zombie." His attempt to lighten the mood fell a bit short, "We can at least do that, right? If all this works out."

Lydia looked up at the night sky, crossing her ankles, "I don't know. I'm supposed to be able to hear things that help people, but I've been sitting here for hours and… nothing. I don't think we're getting any advice from the afterlife today."

"Have you tried asking?" Stiles tossed the idea out like it was the most sensible thing, though Lydia begged to differ, "Maybe they're invisible or something. Like, 'leave a message after the rest of the world disappears'."

Lydia rolled his eyes at him; that was ridiculous. But… at the same time, it was worth a try. She'd done sillier things trying to get a snippet of wisdom from the other side. "Alright. I will, but don't laugh." She closed her eyes, trying to focus on every sound she could hear. Stiles's breathing was steady beside her, and crickets chirped lazily around their feet. The air was still. She cleared her throat before she spoke, "I need to know how to get Allison back."

"Because?" He urged her on, "—C'mon, don't look at me like that. They probably wanna know. _I'd _wanna know why somebody wants the raise the dead, just to be safe. 'Like, is this girl a necromancer? Whew, dodged a bullet there'."

"Because…" Because she wanted to see her again? Because Mr. Argent told her to ask? Because—"Because she shouldn't have died when she did."

"Now you sound like you're telling them they made a mistake."

Lydia turned to him, unamused. "Stiles, do I look like I know what I'm doing? Do _you _want to try?"

"No, nope, carry on," He backed off, suddenly finding the stars overhead infinitely more interesting than meeting Lydia's eyes.

A beat of silence passed between them; the sound of the clearing stayed the same. No wind. Crickets. Tranquility. Lydia continued.

"What do I need to do to get her back?"

More silence. Lydia opened her eyes slowly, looking around the clearing for any sort of indication, any hint at a response, but nothing had changed. Why wasn't this ever easy? Why, when Scott and Malia and Kira had such control over their powers, she couldn't even hear one word when she wanted to? Why was she so _useless? _

It was Stiles who spoke next, "First of all," He stood up, "That is _not _what this whole summoning thing is for. This is—this is for like, if you're _dying,"_ He explained, the words tumbling like a waterfall, "And you aren't dying. I mean, thank god you're _not _dying, I don't want you to be dying."

For once, Lydia couldn't follow what he was saying. "Stiles, what are you talking about?"

"_I don't know,"_ He admitted, "I just _know _that this isn't what that," He motioned to the things left of the Nemeton, "Is for. And… and." He exhaled, still hovering somewhere between confused and frustrated, "And I think I've got it. Like, a list. I just thought of it right now."

"Calm down," Lydia advised, mind racing; if this was a dream, and Stiles was her own mind's construct, maybe this was their way of giving instructions, "Stiles, what list?"

"Uh, um—you gotta have what's left of her, first of all. Phosphorous, nitrogen, calcium, carbon—all that stuff to… to fix whatever's not there anymore," He snapped his fingers as he spoke, like remembering each piece was a struggle, "Something to jumpstart everything, like… like a spark or something. And a promise."

Lydia couldn't believe her ears. "You're saying that's what I need to bring Allison back? How do you—"

"_I don't know_," He re-emphasized, "I just thought of it. Right now. In my head. Oh my god, I'm not doing this again. I'm not going to be some kind of supernatural microphone. I don't care if it's one of the Moerae or a Nogitsune or whatever the hell else is out there—"

Another moment passed before Lydia caught a glimpse of something that would change everything.

"Stiles," She squinted at him, head turned in the slightest, "Your eyes."

In that moment, everything fell into place for Lydia. It was an incomplete puzzle that presented a blurry image, but it was something. This wasn't a dream. The pajama clad mess in front of her was actually Stiles, who had woken up at some ungodly hour of the morning only to walk out into the middle of the forest barefoot because of her. When she'd screamed, when she'd finished this ritual Mr. Argent had set up, he was the one that had shown up. By the way Stiles was looking at her, she doubted he'd made the same connection.

Stiles, thoroughly exasperated, had no idea where she was coming from. They had more important things to worry about, like spontaneous supernatural shopping lists, and she wanted to talk about his eyes? "What do you mean 'my eyes'?"

She stood up, reaching over to tilt his chin up in the slightest, "They're glowing."

* * *

><p>Scott's morning started out mercifully uneventful. He woke up at six, as per usual, took a quick shower, and then (after a quick bite to eat) sped off to school. He parked his motorcycle out in front (he had a spot now. It was his senior privilege, he figured) and waited near the sign in front of the school for Stiles. They had first period together, and it was just a thing they'd ended up doing over the years.<p>

He checked his phone periodically; the bell was going to ring in just a few minutes, and he still hadn't gotten anything from Mr. Argent. Stiles's jeep was still conspicuously absent from parking lot. Deciding it better to be safe than sorry, he pulled out his phone and dialed Stiles's number.

_Ring…_

_Ring…_

_Ring…_

"_Hey, you've reached Stiles Stilinski. Can't take your call right now, but leave your name and number after the beep." _

Scott hated hearing that message. He hated hearing anyone's voicemail these days, only because a missed call these days didn't just mean 'I'm busy'. It could just as easily mean 'I'm dying'. He tried once more, deciding to leave a message this time around.

"Hey, Stiles. I'm hoping you're just running late. Text me and let me know where you're at, okay?"

His next target was Malia, but she was notoriously bad at keeping her phone on and charged; it kicked him to voicemail immediately. He was about to try Mr. Stilinski, but the bell rang, and he tried to convince himself they were fine. Aside from what Mr. Argent was doing—which wasn't _that _dangerous—there was nothing happening in Beacon Hills that he needed to worry about. Not right now, at least.

He spent all of first period checking his phone over and over, waiting for a message from Mr. Argent or Stiles, but none came. Kira caught him during second period; thankfully, their usual history teacher had called in sick and they had a substitute.

"What's going on? You've been glued to your phone all class," Kira asked, resting a reassuring hand gently on his arm.

"I didn't see Stiles this morning," Scott explained, "Haven't heard from him or Malia today."

"That doesn't mean they're in trouble, you know. Maybe they just overslept?" She wanted things to be normal again just as much as he did, especially after everything that had happened with the Benefactor. "Why don't you try calling them again during lunch?"

"Yeah," Scott glanced down at his phone one more time, telling himself he'd put it away afterwards.

_Message Received at 9:54 A.M._

_C. Argent: Things have changed. Meet at NMT ASAP. _

Scott swallowed hard, not taking his eyes away from the screen as he shouldered his bag, "I've got to go." It wasn't that the message itself made him anxious. For all he knew, it might be something good. Maybe Allison was already back, maybe they hadn't wanted anything. What made him anxious was the message in conjunction with Stiles and Malia's absence.

"What?" Kira tried to steal a glimpse at his phone, but Scott had already pocketed it, "Scott, what's going on?"

"I've got to get to the Nemeton," He told her, "I need you to stay here and let me know if Stiles or Malia show up, okay?"

Kira felt like she was being left in the dark, and part of her hated it. "I can, but why? What's happening?"

"I don't know yet," Scott answered truthfully, "It's too much to explain right now— I'll tell you as soon as I get back, okay?"

"Oh—y-yeah, okay." His tone was so definite, it caught her off guard. "Okay." She didn't know what to think; was it good? Was it bad? Dangerous? Would Scott need help?

Before she could express any of those concerns, Scott was out the door, leaving a very disgruntled substitute teacher in his wake.

* * *

><p>Whoa, this chapter was definitely the hardest to write so far. This is actually the second version- there's a full blown, 4,000 word alternate chapter saved on my computer, but I like this one far more.<p>

Also, with the way I'm writing this, I'm considering Stiles/Lydia being endgame, but I'm not sure.

Also! I promise Kira and Liam will get more time soon. Derek too- geeze, just about everyone. There's just so much I want to write and I have to pick and choose what to explore when. It's tricky! Also, I cannot tell you how difficult it was to write Stiles in this chapter. I spent the majority of my time trying to get it right, but even now it just feels passable... Maybe I'll revisit it later.

Also, I can't add the tag here, but in case it's not obvious by now, _inhuman Stiles _applies.

**Thank you for reading, and as always, _reviews are much appreciated! _**


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